by Rob Bayliss
Looking beyond the docks, Morcan could appreciate the true size of Taleel. He discerned how the buildings seemed to stack ever higher from the docks, climbing up what once were low cliffs, into the hills beyond. The city occupied the entire Bay of Flames between the two gun tower topped headlands either side. Looking at the city, it was possible to see the bright seminary walls, and beyond them the Senate plaza. Its position was betrayed by wisps of black smoke that rose into the air. Morcan watched as Braebec, standing beside him, lowered his head and softly muttered a prayer.
“Is that what I think it is?” Morcan asked, in sudden, shocked realisation.
“Yes.” Braebec sighed. “The Sligos have found no mercy from the Emperor. I feared it would be so. An example had to be made. War is upon us; treachery cannot be borne and thus they burn. The Kreven family fled the city yesterday. Their only hope of survival now will be exile … if they can find a ship willing to take them.”
They fell silent as the Windsprite passed through the breakwaters and into the open sea. They approached the northern headland under the watchful gaze of the gun tower Crelesh. Captain Horvine ordered the sails raised, as the spring engine was disengaged. The port and starboard sails billowed, filled with the brisk south-easterly wind, like the spreading wings of an enormous bird. The Windsprite shot forward, skimming over the white-topped waves. They quickly rounded the headland, leaving Taleel and the Bay of Flames behind them. The Mid Sea Archipelago and the Cheama Sea lay ahead.
Chapter 8
As the sun climbed to its spring day zenith, the snow that blanketed the conifer branches had begun to melt. Clear pearls of the purest water clung to bottom of the branch before falling onto the snow below. All around the trees, small pits were forming in the snow as the steady drip revealed the thaw was underway. Winter was slowly yielding to spring north of the Hailthorn Mountains.
There was a snapping of twigs and a huge brown shaggy form brushed the branch, causing the snow to fall onto the ground. The thick snow creaked as a huge foot compressed it under the beast’s weight. Two massive tusks of ivory swung from left to right as the war mammoth forced its way through the slowly melting drifts at the edge of the conifer forest. It raised its trunk as it smelled more of its kind nearby, and let out a deep trumpeting that echoed off the trunks of the forest trees behind. The steam from its call hung in the cold air. There was a space of three heartbeats, and then the call was answered by other mammoths in the distance.
“Quiet girl; you’ll see them soon enough,” the man sitting on the mammoth’s neck said, slapping the animal’s head affectionately. He was wrapped in thick furs, as to look almost like an extension of the massive lumbering beast. His hood was thrown back, showing his brown shoulder-length, rough-cut hair and thick beard. His eyes were intensely blue and were set under thick brow ridges, revealing that he was of the Flint folk. He tapped his rider’s staff against the beast’s cheek and ear, bringing it to a halt.
The Flint Father looked around, reading the ice-clad landscape and comparing it to the mental map that he carried from dreams into wakening. He looked behind him to check that the cargo was still intact. Over the mammoth’s back a large hollowed out tree hung on each side, both bound with hide and rope to ensure the contents stayed dry and protected. For two weeks, once it was clear the spring thaw had begun, he had travelled to the cave of the Elders. The song had come his way late last year, new verses that described new skills. Over the winter he had eagerly sung the words to himself, had worked with his sons over his charcoal fires with the ores described. He had sung as he had cast the items as instructed, singing words of power and spells of strength. Metal working amongst the Flint folk was still rare, despite them having garnered knowledge of such skills here and there over long centuries. Never before had the manufacture of such things as he transported been attempted. He hoped all would be well. Much now depended on his success. Maybe the end of the seven-generation exile was finally at hand?
Such a thought caused a shiver to run through his body, not from the cold but expectation. He lived in exciting times: the realisation of countless dreams of revenge, the defeat of centuries of sorrow, a way through the prison fence that was the Hailthorns.
He smiled as his instinct drew the path before him. He saw the way ahead, up through the ice-encrusted low hills, where here and there rocks and bushes were revealed by the thaw; saw the road to the cave of Elders. The Flint Father clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and gently tapped the mammoth’s cheek with his staff. The beast lurched forward, the snow creaking and squeaking as it was crushed flat with each heavy tread. Above them a light breeze caught the treetops as if whispering a greeting to the travellers.
***
This place was ancient; it had been sacred before the sorrowful consequences of the Battle of the Tusk had been fully realised two and a half centuries past. Beyond the half frozen fur that covered the entrance, the cave opened into a large inner chamber. In the centre the fire burned, casting its flickering light around. On the walls, the depictions of animals and hunting scenes seemed alive as the firelight kissed them. They kicked and ran from their pursuing hunters, writhed in pain from flint spears that stabbed into them, or stamped, their flanks shaking, as if tormented by summer flies.
Around the fire the circle of Elders sat, their Sun Shards reflecting rainbows of light from the central fire pit. Some sang softly to themselves; others sat, their eyes rolling to white as their souls travelled elsewhere. Others were staring into the fire, reading the dancing flames for signs and portents as the logs crackled and hissed.
One of the elder circle wore a cave bear skull helmet, signifying that he was a war cleric. His eyes rolled back from his trance, blinking to accustom himself to the dim surroundings he found his vessel of flesh residing in. “Brothers,” he said. “Wefla the Smith, the bleeder of rocks, arrives.”
An Elder with a cave bear necklace of claws stopped singing and stood, drawing a thick fur cloak about himself. His piercing grey eyes shone as the sun on the Hailthorn glaciers. “So now, we will see whether the new verses are true, if the Bloodshadow’s eyes saw as we hoped. Here we are all gathered. What we will do with this alchemy is still to be seen ….” His words trailed off, revealing the doubt he carried in his heart.
The war cleric stood then. All eyes of the circle were back from their spiritual wanderings and were raised towards the wearer of the cave bear helmet. “Long we have waited. Our lands were stolen from us, lands we walked, named and described for thousands of winters before the Flat Faces arrived. Our hearts yearn for the Summerlands, to feed the herds, to fish the rivers, to see the sun set on the Cheama Sea.”
Some Elders murmured in assent. The lands north of the Hailthorns were a haven, it was true, and yet also a prison. This land was hard and unforgiving, the winters long, whilst the summers too short. Their people had slowly recovered from the shock of their defeat and subsequent exile, but this land could only support so many, whilst over the Hailthorn Mountains the rich pastures and meadows of the Summerlands lay. The desire to follow the herds of horse and mammoth once again around the Cheama? It was a dream carved into the hearts of the Flint folk.
The wearer of the bear claw necklace looked in the fire with his grey eyes and shook his head sadly. “I hear my heart’s own yearning too, but I can see that a fire burns in your heart, my brother,” he said, looking up to view the war cleric. “You yearn for revenge against Taleel, you would cast them into the sea and all who collaborated with them. The Great Mother would countenance against this.”
The other Elders turned their eyes to the war cleric. He stood defiant and unyielding, his hands clenching and unclenching. The fires of hatred burned in his heart. His Sun Shard glowed red and fierce, or was it the reflection of the fire? He looked across the fire pit at the wearer of the bear claw. “Why trouble the Great Mother? Her concern is the cycle of life, the fertility of our people. It is not that of war. Yes, my heart burns, but what of it, Kolok? This i
s what our brother Kress Startooth has bequeathed us through his sacrifice at the bloodied hands of an Imperial soldier. He gave us eyes in the Summerlands, a singer of songs … he gave us the black powder alchemy.” The war cleric looked at his fellows sat around the fire pit. Some sat, still staring in the fire in contemplation. Others flashed their eyes towards him and grunted approval at his words.
Encouraged, he continued. “Yes, I would cast them into the sea, all the signs of the Taleeli. I would cleanse the Summerlands of them and all who have accepted them. The old alliances with the tribes are dead, they are cowed and beaten, and their warriors now fight for Taleel. The old ways are forgotten, we are myths to those without the memory walk. We will get no aid there, but what of it? The Summerlands were once ours alone and they shall be again. Better that there were no Flat Faces in our ancestral pastures. If they will not join with us then we should drive them all to the sea. No towns blocking the paths for our herds anymore; the Summerlands ours … and ours alone!”
Two of the Elder circle, both also war clerics, pounded the ground with clenched fists in agreement and shouted their assent. Some nodded, not yet in full agreement. Others scowled at the war cleric and looked towards Kolok to voice their doubts and disagreement.
“You are mistaken, Weerak Thunderclub,” Kolok answered in measured tones. “Kress did not travel south with the intention of gaining for us the black powder alchemy, he went to find the future wielder of his Sun Shard. That was his calling; the rest was mere coincidence, unintentional but welcome. Only the Great Mother can read the signs and what they truly indicate.”
Weerak laughed in the back of his throat, his Sun Shard sparkling red. Some of the doubting Elders looked upon it in dismay. “Are you a man full grown or shall you cower behind her forever? Coincidence? There is no such thing. The Sun Shard of Kress is lost to us, but it was a sacrifice that had to be made. The Bloodshadow has done what is required; he gained us access to the secrets of the Empire’s power. It has been many months since this circle communed with that Flat Face. He has now chosen to be involved in the struggle between fire and shadow; he was almost lost to the shades of death in the Great Marsh. Well I say we should let these two empires fight amongst themselves. Let them waste their powers against each other. This is the best chance we have had in seven generations to win back our lands. Let us water our herds at Northport, eat our fill of meat in the ruins of Keanasa.” Weerak folded his arms across his chest. He looked at Kolok in contempt, daring the weather walker to oppose him.
Kolok ignored Weerak’s disrespectful visage for the moment. “The Bloodshadow carries our blood, Weerak, as do many between the Hailthorns and the Cheama Sea. You would kill or exile them too?”
Some of the doubting Elders shook their heads at this. One, an elderly Shard holder, looked up with rheumy eyes at Weerak. The firelight danced on his bald and wrinkled head. His mouth housed old and worn teeth. He pointed at Weerak.
“This is shameful speech, Weerak Thunderclub,” he said in an ancient voice that rattled like dried reeds on an autumnal marsh. “The people of the Summerlands are children of the Earth Mother and Sky Father, like us. We have the same faith. Would you have us commit the slaughter of our brothers and sisters? Would you have us emulate the Empire of Taleel?”
Weerak’s eyes blazed with the redness of his Sun Shard. “Shameful? We have suffered enough; so many of our people died in the slaughter after the Battle of the Tusk, women and children as well as warriors. And what of those who froze as they were forced to climb the Hailthorns? What of the elderly and infirm left to starve on the icy mountainsides? All the time the Empire harried us, even though we were leaving the Summerlands. The tribes were left their … our lands, that we let them settle long centuries past. They gave hostages and treasure to Taleel and offered their enslavement in exchange for their lives. But we were never given that choice, only death or exile, our fore brethren burned in the fires of a foreign god, their Sun Shards shattered and broken. We were hunted like beasts! Don’t talk to me of shame, greybeard!”
Voices were raised in screeching acrimony at this. Eyes flashed across the fire pit as brother shouted at brother. The Elder circle was fractured, any discussion lost in the uproar.
The unpleasant sound started low at first, as if from within the crackling of the fire, but gradually cut through the shouts and curses of the fractured circle. It was like the screaming, tortured grinding of a glacier. Like the scurry of a swarm of insects, their wing cases rattling, within a bloated and putrefying corpse. It was the madness that ate souls. The Elders grabbed their Sun Shards at the sound of the unnamed one; all had heard that sound before. They stood, enduring the insufferable sound through gritted teeth, looking about for the enemy. It couldn’t enter here? Surely not! Even Weerak suddenly lost his anger and scanned the shadows, seeking the nightmare that always haunted the periphery of his dreaming mind. All the eyes found the source. Kolok stood, the Sun Shard held against his chest shining a pale putrid green light, his mouth wide from whence the maddening sound came. Only when all fell silent did Kolok cease.
“Brothers,” Kolok said slowly. “We must not lose sight of what the Bloodshadow has also revealed to us, of the nature of that-which-cannot-be-named, lest that sound bleeds forever into our waking thoughts. The Bloodshadow’s Sun Shard and soul was almost lost to the darkness in its house of shadows. The Bloodshadow helped rescue Klesh, who had been lost to us for over ten years.”
Weerak was about to interject, but his Shard faded from red and his anger had been subdued, as the elderly Shard wielder leant on his staff and spoke once more in his rattling and thin voice.
“Kolok speaks true; Klesh was a captive of the shadowed people of Acaross, he left our dreamscape when he was almost upon the Womb of the World. What was it he saw there that silenced and blinded him from us?”
Seeing his opportunity to steer the debate, Weerak quickly spoke once more. “Klesh went seeking a new Shard against the wishes of this circle; he knapped the flint of his own fate. Why should we care about the nameless dark? I say again: let the Shadow and the Fire God fight each other. They are equally as repulsive to me. All I know is this: Taleel has turned its gaze south, the Summerlands are denuded of warriors and now we have the secrets of their alchemy. Let us send the summons, let us fall upon the Summerlands like wolves on a crippled aurochs!”
“Brothers,” Kolok said, his palms spread outward, seeking peace from discord. “Let us view what Wefla has brought us and only then weigh the choices before us.”
There was a muttering of agreement and furs were wrapped around shoulders as the circle prepared to go out into the spring morning beyond the door of semi-frozen hide.
Guarding the door was Golta IceEye. He was broad in the shoulders, and wore a long, thick leather tunic with plates of bronze sewn into it. Strips of fur were wrapped around his thick arms to keep the chill at bay, in which he carried a large two-handed bronze sickle. A bronze axe and an ancient but treasured short sword of steel hung from his belt. His hair and beard were wiry bushes of light brown, except for a thin, white streak that began above his forehead and carried down the left side of his face into his beard. His left eye, dissected by the streak, was a completely white opaque. What he saw through it, Golta never spoke of. He took down the hide door and stepped out into the spring morning.
The entrance to the Sacred Cave was in the cliff of a narrow, steep sided valley that looked south toward the ice-tortured crags of the Hailthorn Mountains. Toward the southeast the sun had emerged over them to bathe the lands of winter in a bright warming light. From the surrounding cliffs could be heard the steady drip and trickle of water, as the sheets of ice that cloaked them gradually thawed. Golta blinked his eyes, adjusting to the brightness of the outside world.
The valley was a limestone, cliff-lined pocket in the earth as it folded upon itself up into the Hailthorns. Already the south-facing valley floor was clearing of snow as moss and grass began to show under the slushy melt
ing blanket. A trickling stream took the water to the west where it disappeared into one of the fissures that wormed through the living rock of this place. On the south side of the valley were more caves, and tusk and fur-lined leather bivouacs where families of the Elders and those who served them resided. There were more people than usual in the cave valley this spring. The mammoth steeds that the recent arrivals had travelled on had trampled the valley floor, hastening the thaw in this sacred place.
There was a group gathered about one of the cooking fires, talking and eating freshly roasted horsemeat. Among them was the newly arrived Wefla, while echoing around the valley was the rumbling and trumpeting of mammoths, as Wefla’s huge steed was greeted by others already in the valley. Strong hands were gently taking the long wooden cases from the mammoth’s back, before hobbling its front legs and releasing it to forage with the others.
Others were handling sacks very carefully, which were kept well away from the cooking fires. This was a new magic to the Flint folk it was true, but they were aware of the hazards of black powder alchemy.
Wefla saw Kolok and Weerak approach. He could see that the weather walker and war cleric burned with a passionate fire. They would like what he had made. He smiled to himself and walked from the cooking fire towards them.
Kolok opened his palm in welcome. “Welcome, Wefla, long have we looked forward to your arrival. You have been successful?”
“My sons and I have worked through the winter, according to the songs we have learned. They work on, while I bring you gifts.” Wefla turned and signalled to the men unloading his mammoth. “Ho there, bring one of those cases over here to show the Elders.”
Three men struggled, carrying the five-foot-long, hollowed log. One stumbled and teetered, threatening to drop his load before recovering, much to Wefla’s discomfort. He swore loudly and profusely. “I haven’t brought these long leagues through wolf haunted forests for some fucking clumsy aurochs’ arse to break them!”